The city gradually killed serenades. First, houses lost their verandas. Then came the buildings, the iron bars on the windows, the gardens and doors, and you couldn't sing anymore if your sweetheart was on the third floor. Then the sidewalks narrowed… and then everything became filled with cars.
SANTO DOMINGO. – A long table with 16 chairs and a variety of dishes worthy of a Roman bacchanal. It's Grandma Nelly's 75th birthday, and in that old house in Alma Rosa, one of the few that remain, they eat, laugh, and enjoy themselves as if there were no tomorrow.
It's already two in the afternoon and although the family has been at the table for almost two hours, the conversation is lively and the intense heat outside makes no one want to get up.
Nelly, the grandmother, mother, illustrious neighbor, and living memory of a neighborhood that has changed more than she admits, is lucid and, while pouring herself a coffee without sugar, she gives thanks to her youngest granddaughter: Venus, who was brought to her from New York as a birthday present. “The little gringa,” she calls her.
In those years, Alma Rosa was the Naco of the eastern part of the city, with its stately homes overflowing with plants in their expansive patios and wide verandas. Like Juan and Nely's, one of the few remaining, now choked with buildings. But they refuse to sell, even though they're offered six apartments in exchange.
The only ones who venture onto the veranda are the little ones, between 4 and 10 years old, who play engrossed in electronic devices blasting music that makes your head spin. The teenagers stayed with their parents and grandparents, carrying plates to the kitchen to clear the table and put out the cake. Suddenly, 19-year-old Daniel blurted out a question straight for Grandpa Juan's jugular:
"Grandpa... how did you guys fall in love without Tinder?"
The table erupted in laughter, and Don Juan settled back in his chair, crossing himself, though with a mischievous grin. He looked at the ceiling, looked at Doña Nely, and smiled flirtatiously, still in love:
"Oh, boy… we used to fall in love with serenades. With a guitar in hand. With a trembling voice beneath a window. And with the radio… because songs were also dedicated on the radio, did you know?"
The boy's eyes widened, intrigued. And without anyone asking, Nely and Juan began to open the door to time. "
Before, the street was a living room, son," she said. In the 60s and 70s, Santo Domingo was a city of barely two or three stories, more horizontal and tranquil. In those days, serenades were almost a nightly ritual, and the sidewalks were true extensions of the veranda, which in turn was an extension of the living room of the houses, and neighbors knew each other by name and for life.
"You could stand on any sidewalk without fear of a car running you over," says Grandpa Juan, "and if a group arrived stealthily, guitars in hand, nobody was bothered or frightened; On the contrary, the neighbors peeked out of their windows or lowered their blinds so no one would see them snooping. “Whose turn is it today?”
"And don't say you didn't sing! You even dared to sing 'Yo soy aquel' by Raphael once, right in front of my house. My mom thought you were drunk," said the smiling grandmother.
"I was drunk... on love!" Don Juan replies, laughing.
At this point, the boys put down their cell phones and listened attentively and with disbelief to their grandparents' story. Aura, the couple's eldest daughter, explained that the serenades were public, yes, and at the same time deeply intimate.
"They were a declaration of love or a plea for forgiveness in front of everyone, and although they were meant to charm, they also served as a way to cry over heartbreak. Because in life, heartbreak has its own little tune; just ask poor Fidelina. From the very beginning, that boy made her suffer, and then he'd come and sing to her," the grandmother remarked.
"And you wouldn't believe the run we'd make when the girls' parents didn't approve and came after us with sticks and belts. We were like Feliz Sánchez," Juan said, adding: "The worst was when the girl rejected the suitor: she'd throw water or other less noble liquids out the window, and you can imagine what happened.".
The boys rolled on the floor; they had never heard stories like this.
Songs that defined eras.
The grandchildren asked what songs were sung, and Doña Nely, her memory sharpened by nostalgia, explained that there were "mandatory songs," those that every serenader had to have in their repertoire, and that these changed with each decade.
Then, with the same solemnity a historian uses to cite documents, the grandfather recited the list:
"In the 60s, the bolero ruled the night: 'La gloria eres tú' by Los Panchos/Bola de Nieve, 'Sabor a mí' by Álvaro Carrillo/Los Panchos. Also popular as songs of heartbreak were 'Perfidia' by Los Panchos/Alberto Domínguez, and 'La Barca' by Los Tres Caballeros."
"If you didn't sing 'Sabor a mí,' you were better off not going out," the grandfather said, laughing. "That was your calling card." One of them stood in front of the girl's house, with two friends playing guitars and a heart in his throat. "I sang 'Pena' by Bienvenido Brens to your grandmother. That song left her speechless."
Nely looked at him smiling and became shy. "Oh, you! Look how she reacts!" Aura exclaimed, and everyone burst into laughter, and the grandparents began mentioning the names of artists: Javier Solís, Vicente Fernández, Rolando La Serie, Fernando Valadés, Aníbal de Peña, Rafael Colón, Marco Antonio Muñiz, María Luisa Landín, Elenita Santos, Libertad Lamarque, Leo Marini, Eduardo Brito.
They continued counting songs and went back to the 70s, when the romantic ballad represented great voices and uplifted broken hearts.
There was one ranchera from the '60s that stood out above all the others: "Serenata Huasteca" by José Alfredo Jiménez, and Grandpa remembered it. A gem of a love song, like "Te amaré toda la vida" by Javier Solís, "Lady Laura" by Roberto Carlos, "Guitarra, suena más bajo" by Nicola DiBari, and "Eres Tú" by Mocedades. They also mentioned songs of heartbreak like "El Triste" by José José, "Un beso y una flor" by Nino Bravo, and "Amigo de qué," among many others. "
When they sang 'El Triste,' it meant things were really bad," Doña Nely added, her jaw practically popping out of her mouth. "That one would break them! They almost always ended up hiccuping."
In the '80s, Grandpa continued, the city sped up, started to rise, but the serenade endured. Back then there were so many great merengues like "La quiero a Morir" by Sergio Vargas or "No hay nadie más" by Ramón Orlando. I heard those a lot around here.
Love songs: "Madrigal" by Danny Rivera, "Bachata Rosa" by Juan Luis Guerra and 440, or "Me olvidé de vivir" by Julio Iglesias. Songs of heartbreak: “Todo se derrumbó” by Emmanuel, “Él me mintió” by Amanda Miguel, “Perdóname” by Camilo Sesto, and “Mientras llueve” by José José. “
By that time, the city was changing, and you had to sing louder because the cars drowned you out,” said Juan, adding that there were also many more lights, and the serenaders usually tried to hide.
Rosa
, the second daughter of Juan and Nely, added that in her teenage years (the 80s), it wasn't all about the streets, guitars, and early mornings. There was another way to fall in love and cry: dedications on the radio.
She spoke to the children, while reminiscing with the adults about radio programs like “Cien canciones y un millón de Recuerdos” (One Hundred Songs and a Million Memories), “Pídalo hoy y escúchelo mañana” (Order it today and listen to it tomorrow), and “Sábado viejo” (Old Saturday), which became temples of confessions via the airwaves as people became more isolated as the city grew more urban.
"It was like sending a voice message, but with poetry," laughed Grandma. "You'd call, the announcer would ask, 'Whose pleasure is this?' and then you'd say the name of your sweetheart... or of the wretch who had broken your heart."
They burst into laughter, and then Grandpa remembered that the songs he most often dedicated on the radio, to Nely of course, were: "Buenas noches mi amor" by Roberto Yanez, which, according to his friend, the psychiatrist Manuel Mota Castillo, a radio announcer in those 1960s, was so popular the phone lines would burst with requests, and it was the song he used to close his program "Unforgettable Boleros" at 10:00 at night.
Also popular were “El Reloj” sung by Lucho Gatica, “Pecado” by Roberto Yanés, and “Nuestro juramento” by Julio Jaramillo, which was the favorite for reconciliations.
"I used to call Radio Popular and ask them to play José José's 'La nave del olvido' for Nely," said Grandpa. "Sometimes I'd ask them to read a poem on the air, and that was another kind of serenade, but without a guitar.".
The grandchildren listened with wide eyes, still not quite believing it, as if they were being read a Dominican love story.
Then the grandfather looked toward the street, his gaze fell upon the gate, and he remarked, “The city slowly killed the serenades. First, the houses stopped having porches. Then came the apartment buildings, the iron bars on the windows, the gardens and doors, and you couldn't sing anymore if your sweetheart was on the third floor. Then the sidewalks narrowed… and after that, everything filled with cars. You don't know your neighbors anymore, and it was impossible to go and declare your love, luckily you have the radios.”
The noise, the rush, the fear, the gates, the electric gates… everything contributed to the demise of the serenades. Doña Nely sighed: “A serenade needs silence, my children. Intimacy. And the city doesn't offer that anymore.”
A Softly Sung Ending
When lunch was over, one of the grandsons, the same one who had asked about Tinder, looked at his grandmother and said, “And do you still know any of those songs, Grandma?”
She smiled with that old-fashioned glow that appears only when the good past comes knocking again.
She cleared her throat and, without a guitar but with soul, sang:
“Clock, don’t mark the hours,” and Don Juan joined in the chorus: “Because I’m going crazy…” and from the kitchen came Aura to sing the chorus: “She will be gone forever, when dawn breaks again,” and from the balcony Rosa joined in: “Clock, stop your journey, because my life is fading…” and from the bedroom Daniel came running to sing: “She is the star that lights up my being, without her love I am nothing…”
The melody floated over the table, over the plates, over the phones turned off for the first time that afternoon. For a moment, a tiny and perfect moment, Santo Domingo once again had wide sidewalks, quiet nights, and low windows.
And although the neighbors didn't hear them, for a moment, the house was once again a Santo Domingo where serenades still fit, and even if it's in MP3, love continues to search for its song.
